


GA OR SK

by ladysisyphus



Series: Wolves [16]
Category: Fargo (2014)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-20
Updated: 2014-07-20
Packaged: 2018-02-09 16:25:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1989720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladysisyphus/pseuds/ladysisyphus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wrench might have been deaf, but Numbers' ears worked just fine, and he knew a lot of sounds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	GA OR SK

Wrench might have been deaf, but Numbers' ears worked just fine, and he knew a lot of sounds. He could distinguish Yiddish from Hebrew from German after only a few words. He could tell AK and M-16 fire apart. And he knew what a punch to the face sounded like and what a punch to the face sounded like when it broke the other guy's nose.

He'd just heard the latter, and now he was standing there in a warehouse with his knuckles throbbing while three of the men around him looked at the fourth, who was currently ass-flat on the floor and bleeding all down the front of his shirt. Bastard went by the name of Mr. Pine and had trouble practically tattooed across his forehead. It might have been better if Numbers had aimed a little lower and broken the man's jaw beyond repair, so he could remember the last clear words he'd ever said had been, "If I were you, I'd enjoy it while you can, before you have to go back to babysitting your deaf-mute again."

The lower half of his face was untouched, though, which was why when he spat out blood, he did it from behind all his teeth. "What the _fuck_!" One of the other guys, a whiny brownnoser who went by Mr. Seale, worried the lapels of his coat in his hands, and the other -- Mr. Train or Mr. Tracks or Mr. Trail or something, he hadn't bothered remembering -- offered Pine a hand, but Pine slapped it away. "What the _fucking fuck_ , you fucking _asshole_!"

Numbers hadn't even gotten angry. His blood pressure hadn't nudged even a tick off normal. He'd just been that close to a face that had needed punching, and he'd had a fist to do it with.

"Hey, easy," said Mr. Carthage. Dimly, Numbers was aware that the reason he wasn't staring down the barrel of a gun right now was that he had more seniority than anyone but Carthage himself, and Carthage was a coward, which was why he never went anywhere without men like Numbers. "Let's all just calm down." Carthage was the human equivalent of one of those moths with huge spots on its wings, the kind that tried to fool predators into thinking it was a big monster with big eyes. And Numbers _was_ calm.

Pine shoved his shitty department-store tie up against his nose and glared daggers in Numbers' direction. Numbers had to try hard not to laugh. Injury was insult enough. "What the _fuck_ is wrong with you?" Pine spat, pulling up to his feet with an awkward little shuffle. Numbers looked at the sleeve of his coat; he'd gotten a few flecks of blood there, but they'd dry into the black wool without a stain.

Mr. Train-Tracks-Trail, who obviously had more muscles than good sense, took a step toward Numbers -- and Numbers just _looked_ at him, gave him the flat, clear expression that said, I heard you laughing, I heard every word you said, and if you come any closer, you are tempting the same fate he suffered. The man stopped. Maybe Numbers needed to give him credit for a few more brain cells than he'd earlier estimated.

When the far door to the office swung open two minutes later and the men from Seattle walked in, Pine was already elsewhere, tending to the mess that had been made of him, and Numbers hadn't said a word, not in defense or explanation. His hand ached in the pocket where he'd shoved it in. Carthage stepped forward and began to talk the business they'd come here to discuss, and Numbers stayed silent and still, keeping track of every wary sideways glance that sized him up on both sides. Maybe Wrench had the right idea. Maybe there was something to the quiet.

~*~

He slid the door to the phone booth shut behind him, not because he thought anyone might be listening, but on the vague hope that might make it warmer. It didn't. He rang the 800 number he knew by heart now, and an operator answered, a woman with a sweet, low voice thanking him for calling. He gave her the number and waited, and momentarily she said, "Hello? GA."

"Hey, partner, it's your buddy. Just calling to check in and see how you're doing. Go ahead." Numbers ran his gloved fingers up and down the thick metal cord that connected the handset to the phone base as he spoke, watching the way his breath frosted the windows around him for small moments before the cold cleared them again.

Even before he'd finished speaking, the sound of clicking keys came back through the phone line, and it lasted a few seconds into the pause after his words before it too fell silent. He didn't have long to wait before he got his answer, in Wrench's words but through a stranger's voice: "Fine. Slept today. Took all my pills. How is the job? GA."

"Job went fine." Though he knew legally calls like this weren't allowed to be recorded or reported, Numbers still wasn't taking chances. "The big meeting was a success. It was boring, though. You didn't miss much. Go ahead."

They'd made calls like this before -- sometimes to exchange information and set up meetings, sometimes just because one of them was bored and wanted to shoot the shit -- and while he knew it must not have been too odd for Wrench, typing into his keyboard and getting replies in scrolling green capital letters, Numbers himself had never quite gotten used to it. He'd weaned himself off talking while he signed, but there was still something so visceral and surreal about hearing a voice, _any_ voice, bring Wrench's words to his ears. At first he'd thought it was odder with a woman's voice, but that had been before a particularly rambling conversation relayed by a rare male operator, which had almost been unbearable at times for how real it could have been, had Wrench been able to speak.

Another pause, this one shorter, before the operator replied: "Wish I could be there. GA."

Numbers nodded, and even brought his hand up to knock 'yes' before realizing no one was there to see. "Yeah, I wish you could have been here too. Far better company. Go ahead."

The female operator piped up again after a moment's silence. "Hope the other guys aren't giving any trouble. GA."

The other weird thing about hearing Wrench's words was that regardless of the voice's gender, it wasn't _really_ like hearing Wrench. At best, it was like reading his handwriting off the pages of his notepad, the way they had communicated in the early days of their acquaintance, the way Wrench still made himself understood to most people when Numbers wasn't around. Minus Wrench's expressions, his gestures, the weight of his body and his gaze, everything was just ... flat. "Nothing I can't handle. We should be back the day after tomorrow. Do you want me to bring you any souvenirs from Billings? Go ahead."

The typing continued, followed by a pause. "I don't know. Is Montana famous for anything? GA."

"For being Montana, I guess." Numbers laughed a little, then leaned his feverish forehead against the cold glass. "I'll find you something nice. Maybe a cow. I'll shove it in my trunk. Go ahead."

"Can't fit it in your trunk," came back the quick reply. "Too small. Need my car. GA."

Numbers wished like hell he'd driven here in Wrench's car. _Any_ car would have been better than Seale's van, a beige VW that looked like it had seen better centuries. Numbers had ridden there in silence in the passenger seat, staring out at endless frozen fields while the AM dial grabbed what signals it could at those distances. Wrench had once given him permission to turn on the radio in his car; it wasn't, Wrench pointed out, as though _he_ cared. Numbers had never touched it.

"Next time," said Numbers, hoping like hell that would be true. "Well, anyway, I was just calling to--" To what? Check in, he'd said that already. Chat, maybe, though that seemed more ridiculous standing in a frozen phone booth than sprawled on his own warm couch, watching hockey on TV. He felt bad, sometimes, about gabbing about useless shit while some state employee tapped and read and tapped and read between them; he'd felt a little less bad the time he'd been narrating a particularly lively Red Wings/Maple Leafs match and heard the male operator laugh under his breath, remarking that it sounded like a fine game he was missing. 

But operators were supposed to be invisible, like translators -- like _real_ translators, not the mess he was. He wondered what that was like, to disappear in plain sight, to fade into someone as quickly as the woman on the phone had become Wrench, only to fade out again when it was all over. "I wanted to see if you need me to bring anything by when I get back. Maybe do a grocery run. Or I can give you some space until you feel better. Go ahead."

There was a long pause after that, one Numbers was willing to chalk up to Wrench's composing some lengthy list of necessities he hadn't been able to procure while on bed rest, drugged, with his shoulder in a sling, which had been his general state ever since they'd left the motel room and gone to see a _real_ doctor. It was a testament to how many fingers the syndicate had in how many pies that the mandatory police report that was supposed to accompany every gunshot wound treated in that hospital somehow had never gotten filed.

And if Numbers had spent every night since their return to Fargo on Wrench's couch, making sure that general state didn't lead to further disaster, well, that was just what partners did.

"Milk," came the reply, "paper towels. Will you make me lakes? GA"

No, operator, he would make Wrench _latkes_ , though he wasn't surprised someone in this WASPy wilderness would have thought that had been a typo. "The patient gets anything he wants," he said, surprised that Wrench had even remembered the opiated, half-awake conversation where Numbers had promised to introduce him to Jewish home cooking. His gaze darted over as a light in his periphery caught his attention; it was the door of Carthage's motel room, and Carthage looked like he had a cigarette and something on his mind. Back to work. "Duty calls. Day after tomorrow, okay? Don't miss me too much." He was quiet a moment before remembering to add, "Oh! Go ahead."

"Only a little." The operator then switched her voice from a straight narrative to a more dynamic tone, and Numbers could tell at once he wasn't talking to Wrench anymore. "The other party is preparing to hang up the phone."

 **GA OR SK** , Wrench had shown him on the TTY screen when first instructing Numbers in the art of relay calls. "Stop keying," Numbers said, and like that, the call was ended. The real call, that was, though Numbers always took a second to acknowledge the invisible person who had only moments ago been his partner's voice. "Thank you, operator, I appreciate it."

"It was my pleasure to assist you, sir. Is there anything else I can do for you today?"

Numbers shook his head. His Rolodex of hearing-impaired people had exactly one number in it. "I'm good, thanks."

"Then thank you for calling Relay North Dakota and have a pleasant evening." There was a soft clicking sound, and the call was done.

Carthage had seen him in the phone booth and was on his way over, but Numbers lingered inside the glass walls as long as he could, taking his time resetting the receiver in its cradle. A light snow had begun to fall, pinpricks of white drifting out of the black night sky. Soon, everything for miles would chill down, ice over, freeze solid. Soon the whole world would be winter-quiet.

**Author's Note:**

> Curious about relay calls? [Learn more here!](http://ddtp.cpuc.ca.gov/default1.aspx?id=1483) I haven't actually made one, but Rel is an old pro at them, so it all evens out.
> 
> This piece's title obviously breaks up a little the single-word fingerspelling/home sign naming theme we've had going thus far, but I think it's fitting nonetheless. 'Go ahead or stop keying' is the sentiment to convey to the other person, I'm about to hang up the phone, so if you have anything else to add, speak now.


End file.
